


Undinai

by larissabernstein



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Horror, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams vs. Reality, Hannigram - Freeform, Kink, M/M, Mermen, Mermen anatomy, Mind Palace, Murder Husbands, POV Will Graham, Post-Finale, Slow Burn, Spoilers, Supernatural Elements, THE WRATH OF THE LAMB, at least as far as the past 3 seasons are concerned, just a touch of tentacle porn if you squint, merman, the AU only kicks in after the season 3 finale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-18 07:46:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4697972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larissabernstein/pseuds/larissabernstein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Hannigram mermen AU makes suddenly much more sense post-finale, doesn't it?</p><p> </p><p>My attempt to treat this idea without going down the crack!fic path.</p><p>Tags will be added along the course of the chapters. I will do justice to the mature rating in later chapters (and maybe change it to explicit).</p><p>To be updated at least once a week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Black and sharp are the waters around him, their salt licking at wounds and drawing more blood, while a thousand ice-cold lips and tongues are eagerly lapping up the precious warm liquid. He is torn apart into uncountable bits and pieces of raw pain. His lungs burn and burn with every gasp and hastily drawn breath. Breath that dines on black water, filling him, cleaning him.

And yet, he has never felt as whole before. What holds him together is a pair of strong arms that enfold him like a blanket or a second skin safely containing what is left of his shattered body, mangled by the fight, marked by the crushing force of the Atlantic. What keeps his flesh and bones together is just the heavy weight of a man that is all but entwined with his body and soul, a shadow tightly sewn onto his form, moving and dancing with him in the depths, pulling him down in a most comforting way. And this, too, is beautiful - that their embrace has withstood both fall and impact, and what could easily have been misunderstood as Will’s last betrayal when he went for the plunge. For it is Hannibal’s steadfast embrace, unrelenting even as the man’s strength lessens and his consciousness dwindles, that wordlessly speaks of acceptance. There is no struggling and kicking, no resistance to their descent into the heart of the waters. No scream, just a soft moan as surprise turns into approval. The die has been cast, thrown into the abyss that was calling out to him. With the imperative of a natural law, it was a strange and overpowering ache that accompanied their moment of absolute clarity, voiced its destructive pull into fathomless depths. Beauty - too much to bear and live with it, its promise just as much a threat, comparing only to the experience of facing the numinous. Throwing himself and Hannibal down the cliff came easy to him, just the blink of an eye ago; it was not so much a spur of the moment, but an instinctive response to a design so much larger than life. The flip of a coin, blasphemous ignorance of overcome taboos and traditions. Tempt whatever fate or coincidence has dished out to you! Tempt it, test it, claim it to make it true and bearable!

Suicide is indeed an enemy, in that it is nothing but a tasteless waste of possibilities, stale and lacking in design. This, however, is not a textbook suicide nor a reckless sacrifice of his own life to save the world from a monster it can and will never understand. Because they - , they have seen each other’s essence, got to know each other in all but the biblical sense. Their fall is not a fall from grace, an expulsion from a paradise that never was, rather a tumble through endless catacombs and hallways, lavishly decorated chambers of a palace no one but they is privy to, all the way into the adytum of the ocean.

And yet, he has never felt as alive before. They seem to be destined to stay alive, don’t they? They have survived this world, survived each other so many times already.

How can he mourn the outcome should he find himself and Hannibal washed ashore the next time he will open his eyes, a few more injuries appended to their already illustrious collection, but alive? There is no pain great enough to drown out his elation, no amounts of water that could wash away or dull the joy he has found in Hannibal’s arms: They are together in this, but now - after the fall - on Will’s terms. This is their becoming, now with added equality; there is no question of victory or competition anymore, only forgiveness and love.

So he finally welcomes the darkness closing in around them, whatever change it might bring.

~ * ~

“Will!”

When he comes to, it is to a familiar, but slightly distorted voice from far away, and insistent touches, softly but stubbornly shaking him, prodding him. 

It is unfair, as everything feels so soft and weightless right now, his self floating in time and space; so it is an effort to open his eyes. What else will await him than the harsh and painful logistics of survival? While his body feels so wonderfully light and pleasantly alien to him, free of pain or discomfort, this state will likely not persist when he returns to consciousness. Wounds will need to be tended to, damage assessed, an escape planned - first away from the rocky strip of land under the bluff, then away from a country that will never be safe for them again. Too much to think about, too much reality, when all he can ever want is to be suspended in their special moment of intimate revelation, too holy and fragile than to be exposed to mundane questions like how they will be living together on a daily basis and how they will realise their murderous design together.

“Will, are you with me?”

Hands on his face then, careful and tender. Cradling his head from cheeks to neck. Will lets loose the sigh he’s been holding and opens his eyes.

It is not a bad decision after all, as the sight greeting him is lovely. Hannibal is so close to him, separated only by the space of a single breath between them, lips hovering over lips, not-quite-touching, still not-quite-not, so that he can feel more than see Hannibal’s smile. His face is open and welcoming, relief as much obvious in his expression as purest adoration, mirroring his enraptured look back on the cliff. It is a sight, Will decides, he will always want to wake up to, no matter the actual terms and conditions of their future life on the run and on the prowl.

Hannibal draws back his head just far enough that Will has to adjust his focus for the picture to become clearer and more structured, and opens his mouth again to a simple “Hello”. It is well rounded, with Hannibal’s lips making every effort to articulate it in as visible a way as possible. It is a conscious decision, Will understands, to make him see and catch up to a situation Hannibal has seemingly already faced and assimilated. The slight move backwards is enough to make him aware of the halo of silver-blond hair that moves with him, waving back and forth in slow-motion, nudged by currents. A small bubble of air comes forth with the spoken word. 

He sees and understands the very second it leaves Hannibal’s mouth, and for a moment growing panic and laughter in the face of the absurd threaten to take away his last shreds of sanity.

A quick glance at their surroundings, rocks and sea weeds and - is this a swarm of fish in the distance? A look at the world around them, tinted in a blue-greenish hue with streaks of light filtering in from above, confirms what Will already knows to be true: they are still underwater. 


	2. Chapter 2

There is a certain consolation to be gained from the fact that the water does not feel cold or hostile anymore, biting skin, stinging, tearing at tender flesh. What seemed like a bottomless well of blackest ink is now permeable thanks to daylight filtering in; also, and this might as well be some reason for concern, his eyes have obviously adjusted to the conditions. Truth to be told, if he puts aside the ridiculousness of such a statement for a moment, the water has become somewhat invisible and unobtrusive to him, surrounding him like the air he used to breathe without wasting conscious thought on it. The longer he finds himself in this situation - and time has become a weird category of its own, minutes melting and hours fluid and out of grasp - the harder he has to focus on the ocean to really notice it as something foreign and external to his existence. Still, it’s the small things that attract his attention: the way Hannibal’s hair dances in the current, his elegant and weightless movements in this element, the way his eyes catch the light and reflect it quite differently underwater.

They have already assessed that the coastline is out of reach - if only because swimming to and breaking through the ever retreating ocean surface has proven to be an impossible, Sisyphean task upon closer inspection and repeated attempts. “Above” has ceased to be a place, it seems, no matter how teasing the daylight seems to call and lead the way.

“If this is the afterlife, then I guess many disappointed people will want their money back from the church,” Will says. There’s no acerbity behind it.

If Hannibal is bothered or puzzled by their state, he hides it really well; but at this point in their relationship Will is quite sure that he does and could not hide anything. There is no point in hiding when all you ever wished for is to be fully seen and intimately known by your beloved. If anything, it is heartbreakingly counterproductive; their past can attest to how hiding essential facts tends to play out.

Hannibal smiles. “Maybe this is your personal hell, my dear Will. Thrown into an unescapable ocean with me as your sole company for eternity.”

“Hell is what we make for ourselves, born out of our fears. I do not fear you; I chose you. And I do not care where we are, afterlife or shared dream, fairy tale or a hidden nook in your palace. Leave it to you to get an ocean where others build a swimming pool.”

A snort. “Every reality is a construct, Will, a kaleidoscope of perception and interpretation, moulded and warped by our actions and interactions.”

Hannibal reaches out and Will feels a hand combing through his curls, pushing them out of his face like tangled seaweed, before it settles on his face, brushing over the scar on his forehead almost absent-mindedly, stroking over his sore cheek - caress and examination in equal parts.

“The wound has closed on its own. In most realities, you would have needed stitches and antibiotics. But it is still a wound that will scar over heavily.”

“Maybe I want it to. And so do you, if this is our shared construct of reality.”

It is touching how such a simple statement can make the hand on his face tremble in palpable awe. Has Hannibal always been such an open book to him and had he only needed to look even closer, beyond the mirror of his own dark urges? _How long have you been in love with me?_ is a question that burns in his mind, bright and tempting, but unspoken. A moot point anyway, not worth the memory of his anger and passionate hatred that had fed his very own ache a life ago. _Just as long as you wanted to kill me, destroy me, change me? Break and mould and warp me to your version of reality?_ So much has been lost along the way, the carnage too high, the lessons cruel and merciless. The BSHCI, a brain set aflame and almost exposed, Abigail.

 _Abigail_.

The words will be left unspoken, left behind with the man who pulled them down the cliff and let them disappear in the ocean, dead to the world. He is long past scorn. And what he can’t deny is that Hannibal has really unearthed what has always been part of his self, no - what has always been his self, hidden under a thin veneer of acquired morals and societal values. It was always about honesty and authenticity, wasn’t it? For a man who likely deems self-denial unforgivably rude to oneself. He would not allow the one he loves to live a lie, no matter the price.

Change, or rather - becoming; it goes in both directions. And it does become him, Will thinks, as he takes in the raw emotion openly displayed on Hannibal’s features. Sans his person suit, but not hiding behind the just as fake persona of a monster. Has he ever shown his true self to anyone else before, open and vulnerable, exposed to the naked bone of his own humanity?

The hand has left his face to seek out the other marks Hannibal has caused to happen to Will one way or the other. When he happened to Will.

It is only natural to lift the hem of his tattered shirt to allow him access to the one scar he is most hungering for to see. To touch. One does not need to be an empath to feel this desire coming in waves off Hannibal. He keeps the touches light and tender, which is almost funny as there are so many other parts of Will that are really sore. This token of Hannibal’s broken heart has long healed, physically, leaving only a smile in its wake - a cruel reminder of a happiness they could have had back then. But it would have been fake, Will thinks, and Hannibal knows that for sure. It took more to come to this point, much more. A divine revelation, beauty itself becoming manifest between their truest forms, not the manipulations and machinations of a man with a god complex. The deus ex machina was to be found in the heady rush of shared blood lust, untamed and unleashed potential, no holding back because there would be no going back. For either of them.

Hannibal sinks down to his knees beside him, half pulling Will with him to the ground softly cushioned with sea plants, half hesitating. Waiting. Waiting for him to complete the motion. And this he does. Again, it is Will who initiates the embrace, but there is no bluff for them to overcome anymore in order to ensure equal footing.

“We are changing,” Hannibal says.

In so many ways, yes. Will can feel the process in every single cell of his body. Parts of him feel numb and inconsequential while others are heightened in sense.

“Adapt, evolve, become?”

“I would want nothing less for us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised to update next Monday. Well, I could not wait myself.
> 
> But don't expect me do these late night fic writing shifts daily! Chapter 3 will indeed have to wait till Monday and give me some time to emotionally recover. ;-)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We come to the point where calling this fic a mermen-AU is finally justified.  
> Warning: slight body horror ahead, but we Fannibals should be used to it anyway.

Transformation is a painful, excruciatingly slow process that makes minutes feel like hours; it is as if the body is turned inside out, the soul cut up in a million tiny pieces and pulled out of every single pore. Everything is distorted, with bones sticking out at odd angles and muscles rearranging themselves. It is a murder tableau gone awry, lacking aesthetic thrill because its artistic object, its raw material of flesh and organs, is no one else but he himself. This is worse than antlers starting to sprout out of the broad expanse of a human back, rising like thorns into the grey sky of a mental asylum, growing on the fertiliser of night sweat and dreams full to the brim with blood. Will can feel the pull of his multitude of scars; old and fresh injuries throbbing with the beat of his pulse. Shards of images pierce his mind - he is bursting forth from the lifeless shell of a figure naked but for the darkness that surrounds it. From the inside, he tears open the ribcage of a slain Wendigo, scrabbling for something to hold on, to pull himself out of the carcass. He is tossing and turning; he claws and searches, blindly, until his hands find a trembling and moaning mass contorting itself in an origami of desire and pain, taking on shape, giving up control. Right next to him, close enough to feel its horror reverberating in his own flesh. His legs give out, melting and warping underneath him. And the one and single good part of this all, the last vestige of rational thought whispers before he blacks out, is that this time they are in this together, with Hannibal going through exactly the same deconstruction.

~ * ~

When he wakes up, head comfortably pillowed on Hannibal’s chest, arms holding him tight, they are still underwater. How long have they been here? Was it only yesterday that they entered this realm, or weeks ago?

_My name is Will Graham. I am somewhere on the bottom of the sea. Probably I’m dead. It is the end of all time._

He finds himself all tangled up with Hannibal as if they were conjoined at the hip. And this quite literally - two pairs of serpentine fish tails, covered in shimmering fine scales, are intricately entwined with each other, where legs should be, struggling to free themselves in a reflex of lancinating panic. Two pairs of fins, gracing their hips as new appendages, flutter with a start and complicate the matter. 

The only grounding point of contact is their embrace, familiar by now. And this is what he turns his focus to, quieting his agitated heartbeat, slowing down his gasps for breath - the latter are a mere habit now anyway.

“A metamorphosis,” Hannibal says, when they have found their calm. “A deification,” he continues, “not granted by higher powers of Olympus but eked out in terror.”

Will looks him up and down in wonder. Hannibal’s upper half is still human. No, almost human, Will corrects himself and reaches out to touch his cheeks. There, just below his earlobe, gills do their work. It is a weird kind of relief, with the total of their transformation, that the gills are rather subtle, keeping the face Will is all too familiar with almost intact.

Hannibal starts to mirror his exploration and Will finds their hands roaming freely over their new bodies. Delicate touches grasp what the mind still cannot quite comprehend. It is an inventory of sorts: cheeks - one still scarred on both of them, but Will beats his by a mile; arms - Hannibal’s adorned with deep scars on his wrists; fingers - five per hand, thankfully not webbed. The nape of a neck, so familiar a place to cradle the other’s head. Shoulders - one of them still tender and marred. The disfiguring curve of a wistful smile on Will’s belly - still there, a handwritten mark preserved for ever. The trace of a shot wound just above a fin.

It registers with him only belatedly that they are also quite naked. 

Hannibal stops in his tracks the very moment both of them feel Will tense up. Hands find hands instead of going lower and exploring with which alterations fate has presented them. 

“Later.” It grants a delay and still sounds like a promise. They have never discussed the sexual ramifications of their union. Does this love include physical expectations? How should it not - Hannibal is a sensual being. Trepidation forms a tightly coiled spring in Will's stomach. Trepidation tinged with a certain amount of excitement.

Hannibal nods. “Later.”

It is not easy to push the thoughts aside, however. Certain parts of them, this much Will has seen - and felt, oh God, felt skin to skin, while they struggled to untangle what once were legs - have come out unscathed in the process. And it takes all his might now not to let his eyes drift lower, or worse, blush. 

Will pushes himself up and away from the other body. Fins and tails prove functional, their rhythmic motions well-coordinated and fluid, as if his body knew what to do with them instinctively. Hannibal follows suit, and Will cannot deny that it is an impressive sight to see him stretch and unfold himself before he swings his body up with the grace of a man trained in Asian martial arts. 

Will shakes his head in disbelief. “Isn’t it ironical? I’ve always prided myself on being a good fisherman. And now I am half-fish.”

“Your pride is justified. You were a good fisherman, knew how to lure indeed. Knew how to lure me. And now you are the Glaucus to my Nereus.”

They swim side-by-side, glide through the water. It works almost effortlessly. And Will thinks they’ll have a viable chance to finally explore their surroundings in a much more efficient way.

“Glaucus was a fisherman turned deity,” Hannibal continues, and Will is thankful for it, as this is not a legend he has heard of before. “He is usually depicted as a merman. As he realised his potential, the woman he loved was appalled by him. She only saw the monster. In the end, she became a monster herself, but of arguably greater hideousness.”

“And Glaucus?”

“One version of the legend says he found his equal in Nereus, also portrayed as a merman, the true and primal sea-god - one of the old gods, before Olympus became a sad projection of human weaknesses. Another version says he was a fisherman still when he met Nereus and plunged himself into the ocean out of his love for him; Nereus changed and saved him.”

Will can’t contain the small snort of laughter. “The true and primal god - of course. How does the story end?”

“They become lovers. That’s all we know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember what I said about late-night fic writing? 
> 
> I think I earned myself some biscuits (and post-finale hugs, pretty please)!


	4. Chapter 4

The cave on the bottom of the Chesapeake Bay comes as a surprise, and Will can think of no better image than a hidden entrance into the catacombs of a mind palace, deep down beneath the base of a deserted but unforgotten castle. There are no fireflies to lead the way, but the pull towards the opening is strong enough as it is. If they are to fall through the looking glass of their shared dreams or insanity, then so be it. There’s no other way now than to go with the flow, with the ocean’s current driving them further and deeper into unknown and yet so familiar territory. Being with Hannibal, loving Hannibal - yes, he can name the feeling now, even if the term “love” seems much too mundane for what binds them together - has always been free fall and maelstrom at once, long before Will understood the depth and form of their dynamics. It’s a need so acute and sharp that he can’t escape its drive. Unsettling, eating away at his soul, but still the one unchanging constant in his existence.

The entrance to the cave opens up on the inside, its walls of rock glowing faintly, giving off enough honey-coloured light for Will to see that it stretches into a long and mysterious tunnel. They glide through the water, deeper into unchartered territory no naval chart will ever record. Hannibal holds out his hand for Will. Not only does he not show any signs of apprehension, but it is obvious that he welcomes whatever this journey has to offer them. His willingness is astonishing, given that Hannibal embodies the concept of flawless control.

“Not where you are concerned, never where you are concerned,” Hannibal says, answering Will’s silent musings. “I could never entirely predict you, nor can I control the story you have set in motion for us; the tale is yours to tell - it has been, long before you or I even realised.”

It is indeed, Will thinks, and he accepts the firm grasp of Hannibal’s hand, anchor and snare, with an answering squeeze, before he tugs to lead the way. All of a sudden, Will knows exactly where they are going. It is intoxicating to feel Hannibal follow him without resistance. Curved walls of amber, more intricately carved aisle than natural rock, surround them as Will leads them towards the dark exit at the end. They drift along in unison, passing ornaments made of bits and pieces of fossilised bones and shells and entrapped insects, frozen in time and as out of place here as Will and Hannibal are in the world of human morals.

While he keeps drawing Hannibal along, a different pull tugs at Will’s mind, worrying its way into his consciousness until it fills him out and can’t be denied anymore.

There have been so many moments in their life already when an opportunity was there, waiting for them. Waiting for him. Hannibal has hurt and abused him so often, pushed all his boundaries, taken liberties with his body and soul, as if it belonged to him and to him alone, that it is unbelievable he never initiated anything concretely sexual. Never forced him. Not even took advantage - sexually - of him while he was drugged or confused. Shove a tube down his throat and force-feed him an ear? Yes. Fuck with his mind, gaslight him, until he cannot help but believe himself to be crazy? Yes. Frame him for murder, send murderers after him, set him up again and again? Yes. Stick a knife in him? Yes. Kiss him? No.

But then… it was courtship all along, Will thinks, and while he saw so much - too much - he did not see enough.

They are long past seduction and courtship now. It’s obvious - Hannibal wants him to willingly take the one step that will finally bridge the tiny, maybe even negligible gap that is still between them. Their lips were so close to each other already, redemption only a kiss away. It’s time to hug without knives or being doused in blood, and love Hannibal back without self-contempt. Sexual attraction is a moot point when they’ve penetrated and consumed each other on so many levels already that Will can’t tell anymore where Hannibal ends and he begins; they have merged into one dynamic. It is an intimacy that actual sex might not even be able to live up to. If Will is completely honest with himself, the latter is something that he fears much more than any awkwardness or physical performance. But he’ll be damned if he not at least try to give Hannibal all that he wants of him, and he knows Hannibal wants all of him.

It is not the most sophisticated or romantic approach, but Will is not going to wait for the next _perfect_ moment, the next _kairós_ , presenting itself. As if fate still needed to tell him when a kiss - _the_ kiss - is in order. So he just turns around to let the momentum carry Hannibal right into his arms, and he searches out Hannibal’s eyes and holds his gaze, still a little unsure how the overture will be received, then leans in to press their mouths together. The softest brush of lips, tentative, questioning. He knows it was the right decision, when Hannibal’s arms come up behind his back to pull him closer and tight and he puts all his strength in kissing Will back, lips softening and opening up to him with a little moan, and Will is falling down the cliff all over again. It feels so right. It _is_ right.

The ocean enfolds them gently and carries them on, past those miraculous walls of amber and death, tiny tableaus scattered all around them. He licks at Hannibal’s bottom lip before delving in, and tongue meets tongue, warm and welcoming. Yes, they are so careful and tender with each other now that it borders on the ridiculous. This is not how Will imagined physical romance with Hannibal to be. Not that he had thought about that specific topic during the last four years - much. There was a time when he entertained ideas about Hannibal with Alana - a masochistic endeavour to envision them together, really. Would the devil shine through his gentlemanly exterior when they made love? Would he bite and mark her? Let her see a different side of himself? No, of course he would not let her see him; sex with Alana would be a perfect performance just like the well-kept air of cultured eccentricity, between dinner parties and society galas at the opera. But when Will imagined them together, one nightmare even so true-to-life that it felt as if he were physically with them, he saw the Wendigo with flames flickering in its eyes, dark and monstrous, towering over the scene. A presence unseen by Alana, but in closest contact with Will, its fire licking his skin, shared breath searing his lungs, burning Will in effigy.

There was no Wendigo on the clifftop, no monster alter ego throwing its shadows on them when they took down the Red Dragon. It was only them, offering each other an expiatory sacrifice with raw violence running through their veins. 

Neither is there a monster with them now, while he drinks the ocean straight out of Hannibal’s mouth, pressing closer still in search of as much contact as possible. His hands grasp Hannibal’s shoulders strong enough to bruise him, but he won’t let go - can’t let go. Their new bodies make it that much sweeter to literally entwine around each other. Not the ever moving stream around them it is then, but the little sounds Hannibal makes, and the way he cradles Will’s head that make his world spin around faster and faster. It is not his conscious intent, but neither can he stop the pendulum once it starts swinging. A heady rush through his last four years begins, back to the beginning, their beginning, smithereens of scenes rewinding rapidly to a life so long ago it seems unreal, until it reaches the turning point; it is a moment of absolute standstill, his life frozen in a silent still photograph, encased in amber for eternity: Hannibal with him in Jack’s office, strange hunger in his eyes. The scene springs into action again, fast forward, pushing him, forcing him, chasing him. A rollercoaster ride into the present, permeated with emotions alien and well-known at once. Will can see it clearly, Hannibal’s motivation that set the film in motion: wonder and curiosity - more: fascination. On the wild chase through time it mingles with Will’s own emotions and interests until there is no way anymore to differ between the two. The driving force in a crime scene that spanned almost four years, upping the body count in a passing strike, is just as much Hannibal as it is Will.

The world tilts on its axis, and Will clutches him closer to his heart. There is no need anymore to come up for air, but he still breaks the kiss to tuck his head between Hannibal’s chin and chest.

“Whatever you want…” Hannibal says, voice hoarse and vibrating against Will’s cheek, but the tightening of their embrace makes him pause, as if he needed to recollect himself. 

It is still new for Will to see him so strangely affected - no, he has seen it time and again, and it is just like Hannibal said: only where Will was concerned; the only novelty is that Hannibal readily admits this state by relinquishing control completely.

“All of you,” Will mumbles into the skin of his collarbone. And he turns them around to let Hannibal face the end of the tunnel they have finally reached. There, framed by an archway of fossilised resin, hangs the body of a man, suspended in time and space, covered in opalescent shells and his arms spread like a firefly with wings of glass that reflect the golden light like a thousand eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so if you told me just a few days ago that my very first fic in this lovely fandom would be a mermen AU, I would have laughed hysterically. Nothing against merfolk, but it is usually not really my cup of tea, unless for giggles.
> 
> But then "The Wrath of the Lamb" happened, and all the tea cups shattered only to come back together in a most unexpected and delightful/sad/shocking way, and I felt way too overwhelmed by it all. (Just for the record, the last time a show managed to completely throw me and my feelings for a loop was when Spock died. So, you understand what I mean.) And after the last few days living with this emotional rollercoaster my crazy brain chose to wake me up at 4 am this morning with a random thought which I promptly shared on [Tumblr](http://larissabernstein.tumblr.com/post/128016075149/warpedchyld-larissabernstein-you-know-i): "You know, I just came to realise… with this epic Hannibal finale there’s suddenly a whole new side to all these mermen Hannigram AUs…" So I issued a challenge for any willing soul to write a post-finale mermen AU that is NOT a crack!fic, mostly because I felt the urges to write it myself - which I really wanted to avoid. But it seems some things in life cannot be avoided, especially if one tends to obsess about them.


End file.
